Imperfect Match

CHAPTER ONE

WEDDINGS WERE SUPPOSED to be happy occasions. Right?

Lee cast his gaze across the empty hall and wished he could dredge up some semblance of enthusiasm for the speech he’d be expected to deliver tomorrow. According to his research—and Lee adored research—the twenty-third century had been rife with pithy, quotable sayings. Funny, he hadn’t found anything pithy. Or quotable. Or even remotely encouraging. Just a bunch of blathering about fertility and duty.

Something contemporary, then. Happiness and Hope, and welcome…welcome? Thank you for coming? He wrote Happiness and Hope in his notebook, crossed it out, then wrote it again. Happiness and Hope, and welcome to this, uh…heartwarming celebration where my cherished sister, Emma, has been united in wedded bliss to her perfect match, Harold.

Howard.

Damn it. Lee squinted toward the back of the hall to see who’d corrected him. A menacing figure was backlit in the doorway. Well, maybe not menacing, but at least unexpected. At this hour, he’d figured the place would be empty. It should have been empty. How about a little privacy here?

There’s nearly three hundred people on the guest list, and you’re worrying if one wedding lackey overhears you practicing your speech?

Yes. Because there was no speech. Two years in the planning, and there was no speech. Listen, whoever you are—

Roman Sharp. Caterer by day, waiter by night. I know, I know, hoarding all the glamor jobs for myself. Just call me insatiable.

Isn’t there anywhere else you can work? I’m running out of time to get my speech together.

And I need to make sure this place is ready for the big day. Roman stepped into the light. Not exactly menacing. Well, maybe a bit. The sort of guy whose appearance would remind you to lock your car, anyhow. He sauntered down the center of the banquet hall, hands in pockets, his stiff black-on-black caterer’s uniform angling harshly over elbow, shoulder and knee. His hair was black too, poker-straight, side-parted and falling across one eye. If Lee’s hair ever did that, he would’ve been raking it off his face by now. He’d never been much good at playing it cool. The caterer stopped in front of the bride’s table, planted his hands on his hips, looked him up and down, and said, Look, I’ve catered two dozen Boomer weddings in the last month alone, so speeches? I’ve heard ’em all.

If Roman’s lyrical drawl hadn’t been a dead giveaway as to where he lived, his use of the term Boomer certainly would have. Vernacular revealed so much about the speaker.

Well, go on, Roman said. You couldn’t ask for a better audience.

Probably not. If Lee couldn’t handle one person staring at him, three hundred would be absolutely paralyzing. He cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, checked his notes, and began. Happiness and Hope, and—

Isn’t it weird how people greet each other with ‘Happiness and Hope’ nowadays? They didn’t used to.

It’s been a pretty standard North American greeting since the rebuilding years, especially east of Mississippi and throughout Canada.

Is that so? Roman’s eyebrows twitched in amusement. Eating dictionaries for breakfast never smoothed out any toasts that I know of.

Lee considered informing the worker that extensive etymology wasn’t typical of the average dictionary, but he suspected it would only earn him an eye-roll. I’m a language major…and Happiness and Hope seems like the appropriate thing to say. It is a wedding, after all.

As if every single day is brimming with optimism and delight. Remember when it wasn’t rude to say ‘how are you?’ Like when we were kids?

Maybe where you grew up. The Taxable District, clearly. I’ve only heard ‘how are you?’ in old movies.

Lately people act like you’re calling them a plague-carrier if you imply they’re anything less than fantastic.

Lee might as well be a plague-carrier if he couldn’t pull it together by the time the reception started. Look, it’s my sister’s wedding and I’m starting with ‘Happiness and Hope.’ Anything else would be upsetting.

Roman cocked a hip, crossed his arms, and gave a smirk that suggested upsetting was entirely preferable to the pedestrian words coming out of Lee’s mouth.

Lee ignored him. Happiness and Hope, and welcome to the celebration of…uh….

Of your sister getting hitched to this Howard guy.

Of the day when my sister embarks on the next stage of her life with…her love? Her loving, um….

Some guy the Algorithm matched her with when your mother chose to keep the pregnancy?

Lee crouched low on the stage and hissed, What is your problem? Someone might have heard!

Someone did hear. You.

I need to lie down. Head swimming, Lee stumbled off the shallow stage, past the mounds of coiled streamers, folded tablecloths and uninflated balloons. A broad bench spanned the far side of the banquet hall, a lightly padded stretch where people would perch while they nibbled canapés and endured the stilted wedding music. He collapsed onto the cushions and draped an arm across his eyes, though he left a small gap so he could track the caterer’s approach.

Roman strolled over and planted himself directly beside Lee’s head with a graceless thunk. Not that I think you’re a plague-carrier…but are you okay?

Where the hell had this guy learned his manners, out back behind the dumpsters? ‘Are you okay?’ was even worse than ‘how are you?’

Lee moaned. Is this some kind of tradition—hazing the wedding party? Did Harold put you up to this?

You mean Howard? Roman teased. Nope. Never met the guy. Have you? ’Cos it doesn’t seem like he’s made much of an impression.

"What am I going to do? My mom will harp on me for the rest of my life if I call him Harold when I give the toast."

Jot down his name.

I’m not going to read from my notes. They’re just for practice.

Then write it on your palm.

Oh, that’s pretty smooth. Plus, he’d likely sweat it right back off.

"Or think up a hint to jog your memory. Like, How weird is Howard?"

You’re not making this any easier.

Set it to music and you’re good to go. I’d sing it to you, but that wouldn’t be much help. You’d need a familiar tune, and I doubt we have the same taste in bands.

Lee expected him to belt out something just the same. When he didn’t, Lee pried open one squinting eye and said, What’s that supposed to mean?

Just that I’ve never seen you down by the Bonfires. I would’ve remembered.

You’ve actually been…there?

Whenever I’m not working, that’s where you’ll find me. Tonight, for instance—your rehearsal dinner’s not on my schedule. No. Apparently, Howard’s father was trying to prove something by holding it at his country club—at least according to Mom, that was why. You should come. Check out the band. Get a few free drinks in you beforehand, meet me out back….

Images of the Bonfires blazed in Lee’s imagination, the jerky footage he’d seen on the news of a rage-filled hardcore band, churning crowds, and massive fires shooting sparks up into the night sky. He wouldn’t have pictured himself at the Bonfires any more than he might have seen himself robbing a bank, or asking his sister if Howard was anywhere near as creepy as he seemed. Right. Me. At the Bonfires.

Why not? It’s easy enough to find. Head toward the river, listen for the music, and keep an eye peeled for the ginormous glowing fiery-looking things.

Getting there wasn’t the problem. Being there was, especially after dark. People get killed, Lee murmured.

That hardly ever happens. Roman smoothed Lee’s hair off his forehead, just the casual brush of fingertips, and at the feel of the casually inappropriate touch, Lee’s eyes shot open wide. And usually it’s the ones itching for a fight who end up getting exactly what they came for. I’m no fighter. Sure, I can handle myself, but that’s not why I go.

Lee suddenly felt entirely too vulnerable, lying there supine with a stranger close enough to touch. He scrambled into a sitting position and said, "Why do you go?"

Roman held Lee’s gaze for an overlong and scurrilously direct moment, then wet his lips and slowly smiled. For the music. Why else?

Lee wasn’t sure. But his pulse was pounding so hard he could hear it in his eardrums, like echoes of the newscasts where the reporters shook their heads and spoke in muted, sympathetic tones while behind them, mayhem raged in the Tax District. He imagined one of the Bonfire bands setting up on the banquet hall’s shallow stage, all tattoos and piercings and matted, filthy hair, tearing through a set while the guests backed against the far wall in horror, upsetting the wishing well and flattening the wedding cake. Now that would be a wedding to remember.

What kind of band played at your wedding? Lee asked the caterer.

Who says I’m married?

You’re not? Oh. I just figured….

Roman sat there smirking at him until Lee dropped his gaze. Yeah, I know, Roman said, I’m getting kinda ripe. But do you know the going rate for a wedding tax?

Not really. Lee’s father was the one who handled the household budget.

Five hundred percent. So if the rental hall costs a grand, another five grand goes to some bloated bureaucrat’s coffers.

That can’t be right. The Tax Moderation Act caps off taxation at 99%.

In theory. But think about it. There’s federal tax. Then add state, county, city and district. Weddings fall under all five jurisdictions. Like passports. Litigations. Funerals. Everyone on your side of the tracks—people with benefits—ties the knot before they’re thirty…not that they have much say in the matter. But it’s not mandatory where I live, and it costs so much, lots of us don’t bother.

I’m sorry.

For what?

Lee wasn’t really sure.

If it wasn’t for all you Benefit Boomers racing toward the altar, I’d be stuck catering business networking socials. And if you think weddings are dull…. They sat in a silence that was more awkward than companionable, until Roman asked, So…who played your wedding?

The question was innocent enough. Logical, too, given that Roman was in the wedding business. There was no way he could’ve known that Lee was filled with such dread over the thought of meeting his preordained bride, he’d switched his major five times to keep himself buffered by an ever-shifting course load and a degree that was always safely out of reach. I’m not married, Lee admitted.

I know.

How?

Roman stood and crossed to the bar, which was covered with a drop cloth. He lifted a corner of the fabric and began rummaging in the cabinet. I’m good at reading body language.

"I have single body language?"

Maybe you do. Roman pulled out a bottle of clear liquor and held it up to the light. Or maybe a look at the seating chart told me you don’t have a wife next to you. In any case, this calls for a toast.

It’s not even noon.

It’s noon somewhere. Roman cracked open the top and took a long pull straight from the bottle. To bachelorhood. He tipped the neck toward Lee in invitation, but Lee knew if he started drinking now, he’d be plastered by the time the rehearsal started.

No. I’d better not. But he wanted to. He stepped back onstage and looked out over the empty hall, and told himself that he just needed to assemble a few sentences on love and happiness and new beginnings, and then he could drink enough cocktails to ensure he got some sleep before his sister’s big day. Or meet up with Roman and go to the Bonfires.